The blue light fell at the end of the day, washing greens to their softest hue and raising purple’s to their most vivid. Even the clouds that had been white an hour before were an enchanting steel blue. With the golds of the dawn and midday banished, all that was left was for the sky to wash black and herald the return of the moon. So we sat there, Earnest and me, feeling the cooling air that ran the valley floor, resting our limbs and feeling our heads prepare for a dream-filled slumber.
The stovetop kettle sagged upon a mass of cold spills. A thousand fingerprints and never a shining cloth, it became duller with each spin of the clock. Were it ever moved, it moan-clanked, only to languish upon different dirt. Its once chrome shine was a sorry smear of grime. Cold it was, cold it stayed. Dust motes plastered it with the hurry of the grave digger. It wasn’t going anywhere. Days, years, eons - what difference did it make?
Every face of the pen reflected light as well as any mirror. On hot sunny days it remained cool. In mid-winter’s grasp it absorbed adventitious rays of the hearth. It’s tip was level. Its grip hugged back my keen writing fingertips. Ink cartridges replenished. Words of happy cadence sprang. The new page had been pretty, all potential and no verbal vignette, yet the heart must be lightened to breathe life into ink, to resuscitate good ideas that should live. As a wordsmith-knight, I was proud.
Clouds were kites that day, playing on sun-ray strings, dappling the T-bird ‘s curves. Her engine and radio sang, creating one sweet together-sound. High in the atmosphere, silence watched as a patient mother, listening, observing, guarding. From deep down in the Earth, magma sent up warmth - just enough to keep its road-grip strong. And, so it was that the little car made a journey that reason and science declared it could not.
Whispering wands of grasses, tall and softly green, clothed the warming field. Sweet spring and lady summer were its tailor. Oh, how they adore their embellishing blooms! Oh how they adore their silken aromas! Daily it is our joy to see the changes each brings, how upon such artistic whim arises cornflour and daffodil. Poppies in gayest riot! Buttercups a merry jig! What magic there is in humble things. Oh, those whispering wands of meadows, rolling and sweet, clothed my warming dreams.
Rain splattered, the storm cloud grey headphones perched half in and out of the backpack. The bluetooth moving out of range, their sound was an inconsistent dribble to the beat of rain on the closeby pane. Quieter they grew. Splutter. Splutter. Silence. Connection dead. And so they sat there, rested, wrested from the demands of the phone. Silence. Silence.